Gospel Story Finder

A young man once walked the foggy streets in London, England, carrying a brightly burning lamp. An old man approached him, saying, “I will pay you if you can guide me to my hotel.” The young man lifted his lamp and took the older man to the appointed location. When they arrived the young man received not one, but three payments, because two other men who were lost had also followed the light through the fog.
“The light that we shine will be seen by the people around us, often without our knowing it,” says Sister Julie Jacobs, relating one of her favorite stories from the Ster, the Church’s International Magazine in the Netherlands.

Mexico City: It wasn’t a typical visit to the home of less-active members: a tape of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was playing, and the Book of Mormon was on the table. Was this the right house?
Roberto Wilson and his wife Maria Teresa hadn’t been to church for months. But when they received a phone call saying a General Authority, a regional representative, and a member of the stake presidency (who was their home teacher) wanted to visit them, they weren’t stricken with horror or guilt. “We felt honored that hey would visit us!” says Maria.
Did she put on the Tabernacle Choir tape just to impress them? “No, I always have my Choir tapes playing. The music relaxes me.”
After a prayer, the leaders chatted with Roberto about his work at the bank and then asked about their feelings for the Church. Maria mentioned some past problems. The leaders expressed understanding and then invited them to return to Church. “They told me I should be progressing,” says Roberto, “and they challenged me to receive the priesthood and to take my wife and children to the temple.”
How did the Wilsons react? “It was good for them to visit us,” says Roberto. “Their clear intention was to gather us like fish in their nets because we had strayed.”
“My husband told me that ours was a chosen home to have such visitors come,” says Maria. “Now we felt it was our responsibility to be in church. I thought of the callings I’d had before, and I felt bad that I didn’t have one then.”
The immediate challenge was to attend stake conference the next day. The Wilsons did so and have continued to attend church. Although Roberto had been a member for four years, he had never received the priesthood. One month after the visit, he received the Aaronic Priesthood. In another month and a half, he was ordained an elder. “We’re planning to go to the temple,” he says, “and I’d like my son and daughter to go on missions someday.”
They speak of the missionaries, home teachers, and friends who have encouraged them over the years. Then, reflecting back on that special visit: “It gave me joy to talk with those brethren; they have great hearts.” (See: “We Come with Love.”)

They were known everywhere they went. They were members of the best football team around, which made them members of the most popular groups on campus—in town—in the state. At every turn there was an encouraging word, a friendly smile, a jovial pat on the back. Their names were in the papers; their faces were on T.V. Their lives were a dream. Yet they willingly traded those dreams in for a hard dose of reality.
More than just voluntarily, they eagerly exchanged all that fame and glory for obscurity, taking little heed of the effect it would have on their futures. They traded the warm handshakes for indifferent shrugs, the encouraging words for curious glances. Only a handful, if that many people, knew them, and they were hundreds of miles away from those who cared for and loved them.
Yet Bart Oates, starting center for the New York Giants, and Trevor Matich, 1985’s first-round draft pick of the New England Patriots, claim they would do it again in a second. They feel their choice to interrupt their promising college football careers to serve missions was one of the most important decisions they ever made. And they acknowledge the fact that they wouldn’t be where they are today if they hadn’t served.
“When I made the decision to go on a mission, a lot of people thought I was crazy,” relates Trevor. “I’d played two seasons of football at BYU. I’d made varsity as a freshman—the only freshman on the varsity offense that year. I’d received two championship rings. I’d been to two Holiday Bowls. And I was going to leave it all to go on a mission?
“But they didn’t understand my motivation. Going through my mind was the fact that football is good and football is important, but someday football is going to end. Where would I be on that day if I based my entire life on football? I thought of what doesn’t end, and that’s my relationship with God, with my family, and with our church.
“So I left football, knowing that I might not ever play again. But even if I didn’t there would be no regrets, because the most important thing would be taken care of.”
Deep sentiments from a deep man. Trevor belies the stereotypical offensive lineman image. At age 24 he is eloquent without being arrogant, which is an accomplishment, since he had barely finished helping BYU win the national football championship when New England snatched him up to play center.
Although the Patriots offered Trevor a salary that competes with the best of them, you won’t see him flaunting it. He’s still most comfortable in a plain shirt and his old Levi’s with the strings from his Super Bowl field pass attached. Trevor had to watch his team play in the Super Bowl from the sidelines because, in the first game of the season, a gang of Green Bay Packers fell on his ankle. That, much to his frustration, left him on injured reserve for the rest of the season. But Trevor has high hopes for this, his second season.
When he’s not working with the team, Trevor often finds time to travel home to Sacramento, California, where he likes nothing better than watching his younger brother play basketball. In Boston, where the Patriots are based, he spends a lot of time counseling youth at the Gabler House, a home for children who are wards of the state.
Bart Oates doesn’t exactly fit the bruising stereotype either, although he says he’s “too fat and too slow to be anything other than an offensive lineman.” In fact, “jolly” might be the first word you think of when you see him, with his perpetual smile, rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes. It’s a good thing too, because at 6 foot, 3 inches and 265 pounds, the man could be rather intimidating without a smile.
At age 27, he has already had four years of experience with professional football. He was drafted out of BYU to play with the Philadelphia Stars of the newly formed United States Football League, where he stayed for three years. Just last year his contract with the USFL expired, and he decided to make the switch to the National Football League. His play at center helped the Giants to a division title, and they have higher hopes this year.
When he’s not playing football, he’s studying law at Seton Hall University in New Jersey, playing racquetball, spending time with his wife and two small sons, or serving as assistant nursery leader in the Emerson Ward, Caldwell New Jersey Stake.
Bart feels the same way Trevor does about his choice to serve. “The decision to go on a mission was easy. It was just the right thing to do. And you know, when I went, I made up my mind I was not going to return to football. That was the only way I could serve well. Instead of suffering the mental anguish of going through two years of thinking ‘I’ve got to stay in shape so I can play when I get back,’ I put it all out of my mind, and in so doing I was able to concentrate on my mission.”
So out they went. Bart served in the Nevada, Las Vegas Mission from 1977–79, and Trevor served in the Mexico Torreon Mission from 1981–82. They were to learn many things in the mission field that they readily admit they would have missed had they stayed on the football field.
“It gave me a new perspective on life,” Bart says. “Before that, football was my life—it was my god, really, in that, first and foremost, everything I did was toward making me a better football player, and everything else came second. But my mission helped me to realize that the spiritual aspects of living are more important than anything we can do as far as personal glory goes.”
Trevor adds a few more lessons learned in the mission field. “When I first got to Mexico, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. There were people living in one-room houses about the size of my bedroom, with eight kids and maybe one bed, a chair, and a table. The door would be a curtain hanging down. You see other people put up four stakes, wrap butcher paper around them, and that’s their house.
“But the thing that struck me was that amidst all that lack of physical comfort, the people were happy. I mean, they were really happy. As time went on, I came to know that they placed very little value on material things, and a lot of value on people—the family—relationships. Mexico is very family oriented, and I think that’s one of the reasons why the Church is growing so fast down there. People love each other, and that’s their life. That became my life too.”

Some years ago Elder Marion D. Hanks told about a group of Boy Scouts who went cave exploring. The narrow trail was marked with white stones and lighted in sections as they went. After about an hour they came to a huge, high dome. Below it lay an area called the Bottomless Pit, so called because the floor of the cave had collapsed into a deep, gaping hole. It was hard not to jostle each other on that narrow path. Pretty soon, one of the bigger boys accidentally pushed a smaller boy into a muddy area away from the light. Terrified as he lost his footing, he screamed in the darkness. The ranger heard his cry of terror and came quickly. The boy let out another cry as the beam of the ranger’s light showed that he was right on the very edge of the pit. (See Improvement Era, June 1957, 444–51.)
In this story, the boy was rescued. But this does not always happen. So many times young people go to the very edge or even beyond it. With only a precarious toehold, it is easy to be seriously injured or even die.

Fifth grade was a hard year for me. I’d had the same group of friends for several grades, and I thought that we would always be friends. But soon after fifth grade started, my friends started using bad language and acting in ways I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t like. They also started being mean to other kids in our class and talking about people behind their backs.
Eventually I became one of those kids my friends made fun of. They even gave me a mean nickname: Big-Lip Charlotte, or “BLC” for short. My feelings were so hurt. I started trying to avoid my friends at school, but it was hard because we were in the same class.
“Hey, guys!” I said one day at lunch, trying to be friendly and cheerful.
“Hey, BLC! Big-Lip Charlotte!” they chorused together as they made faces at me.
I ran away, trying to hold back tears. I ate lunch by myself and counted the minutes until I could go home.
“What’s wrong, honey?” asked Mom when she noticed my tear-stained cheeks after school.
“The kids who used to be my friends have started calling me a horrible name. I just don’t understand why they have to be so mean to me.” I started to cry again.
“Those kids shouldn’t be acting that way. But it really doesn’t matter what other people think of you. You’re beautiful, and you have no reason to listen to what those mean kids say.”
“But, Mom,” I said. “I see them every day. I do care what they think of me. And other people listen to what they say about me. How can I just ignore everyone?”
“Charlotte, the only opinions that really matter are yours and the Lord’s. If you’re OK with yourself and what you do, and if Heavenly Father is OK with your choices, it doesn’t matter what people call you or say about you. I promise.”
As I went to school the next few weeks, my old friends still laughed at me and called me names. But I soon found that I could walk around with peace in my heart. I knew that if Heavenly Father was OK with my big lips, then I could be too.
I was able to get through the rest of fifth grade. I ended up making new friends who didn’t call me names and who helped me feel good about myself. Most important, though, I learned that if Heavenly Father is pleased with who I am, then I don’t have to worry about what anyone else thinks.

This week I was reminded of one of those Mudville days. Honestly, I don’t remember if all of these things happened on the same day—they all blur together in a fog on the joyless treadmill. But they really happened in proximity close enough to count as a bad day. I had finished long hours at work with a steady stream of student problems, faculty conflicts, and overdue reports. At home kids needed help with school problems, friend problems, and romance problems. We were living in our basement, ten months into a six-week remodeling project. We were out of cat food, so the cat was mad. But we were also out of what my son calls “human food,” so the cat had to get in line. I mistakenly dropped a tax-refund check in the trash, which had gone to the street for the next day’s collection, so the neighbors got to watch me rummage through my own garbage like a vagrant bag lady. Then, at the worst moment, the right front tire on my car was flat to the rim.

Sometime during all this, I made some soup for a family in our neighborhood. It was now after 10 at night, but I decided this was the only time I could deliver my pot of compassionate service. I convinced my husband that he should help me take it to a family where the father was very ill. I knew someone would still be up. So I held the soup in my lap while my husband drove the car, with the tire now repaired by AAA. (You think I am going to say that I spilled the soup, don’t you? Well, I didn’t! For this talk, there has to be some joy in the story.) I tiptoed to the porch and nudged my shoulder against the front door and knocked gently. I cautioned my husband to be quiet, thinking that a quiet interruption in the middle of the night somehow was more like charity.

From inside I thought I heard the doorbell ring and chided my husband, “I told you, don’t ring the doorbell!” Then I heard it again. “Stop it,” I said. He just looked at me with a blank face. I thought I could hear the doorbell ringing again and again. Finally, the granddaughter came to the door. “Hi,” I whispered. “Sorry we are so late; we won’t come in. We just wanted to let you know that we are thinking about you. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

“Thank you,” she said patiently, as she nudged me away in what I thought was going to be hug. As she pushed, she said, “You are leaning on the doorbell!” It was the end of a perfect day according to my personal mission statement, “No good deed goes unpunished—there’s no joy in Mudville.”

“Before we were old enough to hustle our own jobs, Dad made an agreement with the four of us boys that if we would work with him—put in a good morning of work that he had planned for us—he would play with us in the afternoon. So after four to six hours of real hard work, Dad, who was an athlete, taught us how to play basketball, baseball, and other sports. In fact, he helped us build a track so we could run on it.”

In January 1976, I received a telephone call from a friend who worked for social services. He asked if my wife and I would be willing to take in a foster child. At the time we had two young children of our own, but we agreed to open up our home to 17-year-old Kathy.
Soon after arriving in our home, Kathy asked if she could attend church with us. Of course we said yes, and soon Kathy was attending church regularly. Many of Kathy’s friends from her former congregation noticed her absence, and they were unhappy to find out that she was attending the LDS Church.
One day after school, Kathy told us that her former church was planning to stage a “Save Kathy” night for their youth ministry meeting. Kathy asked if I would accompany her to that meeting and help her defend the Church. I reluctantly agreed because although I didn’t want to argue with her friends about doctrinal differences, I knew that she didn’t yet know enough about the Church to defend it. I decided to bring another guest, Richard Jones, who had just returned from his mission.
The day of “Save Kathy” night was a day of fasting and prayer for all of us. I prayed that the Spirit would be present at the meeting and that there would be no contention.
When we arrived at the church that evening, we sensed some animosity, but the youth minister welcomed us warmly and invited us to tell the group about the Church and our beliefs. As Richard shared what was then the first missionary discussion and taught about the Restoration, the 15 or so young people in the room listened carefully. Even the youth minister was captivated.
We then spent the rest of the evening answering questions and having a wonderful discussion about the gospel. The animosity we had felt at first quickly subsided as we calmly explained our beliefs. There was respect on both sides. The Holy Ghost filled the room as we shared our testimonies and responded to questions.
At the end of the discussion, the minister thanked us for coming. Then, as we turned to leave, a young woman rose and said she wanted to tell us something. She said that before we came, she didn’t think Mormons were Christians, but now she believed we might have been better Christians than she was.
We could not have scripted a better ending to our discussion. I know the meeting would never have gone so well if we had not fasted and prayed, pleaded for the Spirit to be present, and petitioned the Lord that there be no contention. Only with the Holy Spirit present can we be effective in sharing the gospel message.

Let me share with you a time of waiting upon the Lord in our family. We asked our teenage children to be home by 9:30 on a Saturday night. There would be an envelope waiting. One of the children read aloud, over the signature of the First Presidency, a mission call for our family. Suddenly everything changed—the future of the football team, the dance company, violin and piano lessons, lawn jobs, friends, and dreams. There were tears.

We went from room to room that night wiping wet cheeks and rubbing backs. In our seventeen-year-old son’s room we found him ramrod straight on the edge of his bed looking across to his bulletin board, where there were pictures of his football team, his brother on a mission, his family, the prophet, and Jesus Christ.

By morning all eyes were dry, and sitting on the second row in sacrament meeting, we sang, “I’ll go where [and when and how and why] you want me to go, dear Lord.” 27 We waited to find out where that would be. We waited as we put our lives in order, shifted vision, adjusted expectations, and squared our shoulders. We watched through each new step, through the living of it, and through what was hard and what was wonderful, until years later each child, in his or her own way, said, “Everything that is good in our lives is because we served.”

“Thanks, Bishop Rowley. We’ll be glad to help.” Brother Hulet, our deacons quorum adviser, took the clipboard from the bishop’s hand and announced, “I have a sign-up list for volunteers at the Church farm. I’m sure the Lord would be pleased if all of us would help out this coming week.”
“What kind of help?” I asked warily. This Church farm idea didn’t sound like it would be very fun.
“Our only assignment this week is moving sprinkler pipe.”
My thoughts returned to volunteering at the Church farm. “Well, I—I don’t think I can come,” I stammered. “I have to go to my own job every morning.”
“That’s no problem,” assured Brother Hulet. “We always go to the Church farm in the afternoons.” Brother Hulet passed around the sign-up list. “When each one of you was ordained to the priesthood, you were given the power to act in the name of God. And when we serve Him by serving others, we are acting in His name. Besides, with all of us helping, the work won’t seem hard at all.”
The list was passed to me. I couldn’t believe that, so far, everyone had signed up to go every day this week. Didn’t they know how miserable this was going to be? I felt a great weight of righteous peer pressure exerted on me. Grudgingly, I signed up and passed it on.
Monday afternoon, I sat in my room recuperating from the morning’s work when I heard Brother Hulet honking his horn outside. I hesitated for a moment before changing back into my smelly, damp work clothes.
We soon pulled into the Church farm. Everyone but me raced toward the field. I lagged behind, head down, kicking rocks, when I was surprised by a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming with us,” Brother Hulet encouraged. “I know you worked hard this morning.” We walked together in silence for a few moments. Then he ran ahead to organize the group.
I watched him and thought about what he had said to me. I had worked hard that morning. I was tired and smelly, and I wanted to go home. But what about Brother Hulet? He had worked hard that morning too. So had all the guys, for that matter. So why did they seem happy to be here?
I caught up to the others, and we began our work. At first, I tried to cheer myself up by thinking of the noble sacrifice I was making. But soon my self-absorbed thoughts ended, and I noticed how quickly we were moving with everyone helping. We laughed and talked, and suddenly I realized I was actually having fun! In a few short hours we had completed our assignment.
As we rode home, I realized that what I thought was going to be an unbearable sacrifice seemed small. In fact, with everyone helping, it seemed like no sacrifice at all.
Brother Hulet stopped his station wagon in front of my house and looked back at me. “Thanks for your help today. Your hard work made it easy for the rest of us.” He smiled and winked.
I grinned back. “Thanks, but all of us helping together was what made it easy.” I climbed out of the car and closed the door.
Brother Hulet put the car in gear and began to pull away. “See you tomorrow, then?” he called through the open window.
“Sure. See you tomorrow,” I said.

My mission president also had a great influence on me. I was so enthusiastic about serving my mission that all I wanted to do was teach and baptize people. But he had the wisdom to take me on assignments where I would learn about Church procedures and administration. Later, when I was called to serve in leadership positions, such as a young bishop, I was truly grateful to him for giving me those experiences.

Becki Jackson’s dream had come true. She had been chosen for one of the starring roles in her high school’s musical production—something she had hoped for since she was a little girl.
With the stress of auditions behind her, Becki looked forward to learning her part. She took the musical score home. But as she looked through the manuscript, she was uncomfortable with many of the songs that seemed to have suggestive lyrics and double meanings. And her role was the worst!
This was her senior year—the first year the high school had put on a musical production in a long time. Her one-time opportunity to perform could be spoiled.
Becki and her family, who live in Fisherville, Ontario, Canada, and attend the Simcoe Branch, had been members of the Church for two years. Becki’s standards had always been high, but she was more determined than ever to uphold them now that she was a member of the Church and the only Latter-day Saint in her school.
When she went to her first rehearsal for the play, “I told my teacher-director that I wouldn’t sing those songs,” she says. “He tried to convince me that the lyrics were only supposed to be funny. They didn’t want to lose me as a lead, he said, but if I felt that strongly they would give me different songs to sing.” And different songs she did get!
At the next rehearsal, Becki was assigned to the chorus. No explanation was given. Another girl was assigned Becki’s lead role and was asked to sing the songs.
However, Becki’s classmates were so supportive of her stand that the teachers finally modified the songs by completely removing the verses that Becki had refused to sing.
Becki’s father, Kel Jackson, says, “I knew the strength of Becki’s testimony when I asked her if she was going to continue in the musical or drop out. She answered, ‘I have waited a long time for this, and I have worked hard. They may have taken away my part, but they did remove the bad words, and I am going to be in this production.’ Through weeks of rehearsal, she never again mentioned the situation or complained in any way.”
When asked if she was bitter toward her teachers for their actions, Becki answers, “I didn’t like their attitude about the songs, but they were nice people, and they were working hard to make this a production the school could be proud of.”
On opening night, Becki showed great delight in participating in her limited role, which included a one-line solo. “Many people questioned why she had not played a larger part,” comments her father. “It was then that I fully understood that she had played a larger part than any role in the play. She had set aside personal desires to act in a manner pleasing to her Father in Heaven. Becki’s example is a reminder that sacrifice for gospel principles will always lead to a starring role.”

Gabriel Paredes of Lima, Peru, says, “Some of the counsel that was given to me in my blessing I have only been able to fully apply with my family after being sealed to my wife.
“Recently we had been wondering what we could do to strengthen and build our new family. Our question was answered through my patriarchal blessing. In it I am advised to prioritize respect, tolerance, and love in my family, because these are some of the important foundations of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“As we have focused on this, my wife and I have been able to overcome problems. We still have occasional challenges as a family, but we’re happy. I felt like the Lord was reminding me how I could have the family that He promised me. I know that the Lord speaks through patriarchal blessings and that the counsel in them is to be used in our lives.”

It is Sunday evening, and the home of Abilio and María Elena Samaniego in Asunción, Paraguay, is alive with the sounds of family. The three unmarried children are there, along with the three married children and their families. Now dinner is over, and the adults visit while the grandchildren play. This morning was the homecoming of a missionary son, so this evening is a time of reminiscing, laughing, teasing.
It’s no surprise that the focus of the conversation tonight is on Church and family, because it was the Church’s emphasis on families that attracted Brother Samaniego nearly twenty years ago. “I saw how much the missionaries loved my family,” he recalls. “They showed me how to love my children. My heart was softened, and I accepted their message.” The family was baptized in 1974. Brother Samaniego learned to be a patriarch in his home. Now, he is also a stake patriarch.
Family members reminisce about how the Church has blessed their lives. As they talk, a blanket of love descends upon them. Tears and testimony flow freely.
They recall the years when they lived five kilometers from the nearest branch. “Since there were eight of us, it cost too much for bus fare,” remembers their oldest daughter, Yenny, who is now the mother of four children and the wife of stake president Gregorio Figueredo. “So we all had to walk—two hours each way. We made that trip every Saturday for Primary and Mutual. And since Sunday meetings were held both morning and afternoon, we would make the round trip twice—a total of twenty kilometers. When it was really hot, we would sometimes take our lunch and sit under a tree between meetings. From the day we were baptized, I don’t remember that we ever missed a meeting.” Now, all six children and their families are faithful and active in the Church.
The boys remember getting dressed in white shirts and ties when they were as young as seven or eight and going out to teach with the full-time missionaries. Several family members, including fifteen-year-old Carolín, have served stake missions. Now, all three Samaniego sons have completed full-time missions.
The girls recall their mother encouraging them to date members of the Church, even though there didn’t seem to be many young LDS men around. “Surely there is a mother somewhere who is preparing a special young man for you,” their mother would tell them. Now, all three of the children who are married were married in the temple.
Sister Samaniego reflects upon her years teaching early-morning seminary. “We would get up each morning at 5:00. While I was teaching the class, my husband prepared breakfast for the family and all the students. Then everyone would leave in time to get to school by 7:00 A.M.” Before Sister Samaniego was released as seminary teacher, she had taught all six of her own children. She also taught them all in Primary, Sunday School, and Mutual. Currently, she is ward Relief Society president.
Someone pulls out a scrapbook with photographs showing the Samaniegos and other “pioneer families” building their chapel. And they talk about how the Church in Paraguay has become more respected because of the examples of members.
The hour is late, but no one wants to leave. Memories lead to more memories, and now several conversations are going on at once. “I am very fortunate,” says Brother Samaniego quietly. “My heart rejoices tonight as I see and listen to my children and their families. ‘Man is that he might have joy.’ That is what I feel today!”

At first, the LDS Hour seemed to be a service just for Church members. But Brother Noble and the boys found out that the show was being watched by an audience they hadn’t quite expected. They found that members who have not been attending church for years are tuning in.
“They don’t want to commit themselves to attend church meetings, but they want some connection. One lady who watches our show was baptized 33 years ago,” said Brother Noble. “Her home teachers and visiting teachers have never been successful in encouraging her to attend the ward. But she watches the program and calls her friends to watch it.”

Ironically, one of the most painful arguments James and I ever had occurred during companionship council. The conflict quickly and unexpectedly escalated past the point of rational conversation, and we were both hurt in the process. But that heartbreaking conflict that began in companionship council was also resolved in companionship council. We knew we would have another chance the next week and the next.
So after a week of pondering and cooling off, we tried again, and we eventually worked through our differences. I felt keenly the “personal peace and a burst of spiritual momentum” promised to us when we resolve conflicts in the Savior’s way. Every conflict we resolve with creativity and love will propel us forward and invite further influence from the Holy Ghost in our relationships.

Because of the relationships and goodwill he has formed over the years, the local police approached Arthur to help develop an Independent Advisory Group in Northamptonshire. IAGs were originally formed in response to the killing of the black teenager Steven Lawrence in London. Their aim is to provide guidance, insight and constructive challenge to local constabularies. Very quickly, Arthur became co-chair and finally chair of the group. The group involves people of many faiths, including Muslim, Sikh, Jewish, and Hindu. They work on a range of sensitive and potentially emotive issues like sexual violence, hate crime, drugs, knife crime, burglaries, gang violence, forced marriage, homelessness and keeping people safe in custody.

In October 2020, Arthur was presented with an award, recognising his contributions as chair of the Northampton Independent Advisory Group.’

Camping at a castle is just business as usual for the girls in the Adana Turkey Branch. All three girls live in Turkey because their fathers are stationed at the Air Force Base there. Because of their unique circumstances the regular girls’ camp program was modified to fit their needs.
The camp lasted only 24 hours (the girls spend their school vacations in the States with family and friends, so camp was held on a weekend), and the tents were pitched on rocks near an old castle in the Taurus mountains. Lots of other things were just like any other girls’ camp; they cooked tinfoil dinners over a fire, sang silly songs, and even made a craft.
“We’ve never had camp just for us,” says 17-year-old Hanim Christensen. “I wish I could have gone before. I really like it.”
The girls also certified and participated in a hike in scorching 90-degree temperatures, exploring the castle and mountain trails.
The girls had so much fun, they’re thinking of stretching camp out for two days next year.

Todd had a hard time sitting still during sacrament meeting. He swung his feet. He wiggled in his seat.
Todd liked to sit on Daddy’s lap at church. But Daddy was out of town today. “Todd,” Mommy whispered. “It’s time to be reverent during the sacrament.” She gave him a copy of the Friend.
Todd looked at the pictures. But soon he got tired of being still. He held his baby sister, Sarah’s, hand. She wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Todd smiled.
Soon the bread tray was passed to him. Todd was hungry. He used both hands to grab lots of bread. Mommy frowned. She said, “Next time, just take one.”
After the meeting, Mommy smiled at Todd. “Thank you for helping Sarah while Daddy is away.”
Todd liked helping Mommy at church. He thought about all the bread he took.
“I’m sorry I took a lot of bread. Why do we only get one piece?” he asked.
Mommy hugged Todd. “We don’t take the bread because we are hungry. We take the bread to remember Jesus. And we take just one piece so that everyone can have a piece to remember Jesus.”
Todd tried extra hard to be reverent during church the next week. He took just one piece of bread. He was happy he could remember Jesus. He wanted to help others remember Jesus too.

In 1832, emerging from the vision on the three degrees of glory (Doctrine and Covenants 76) with his companion in the vision, Sidney Rigdon, the Prophet looked strong, while Sidney was limp and pale. To this the Prophet, with a certain humility as also perhaps with a little condescension, said, “Sidney is not as used to it as I am.”42 But after the First Vision, he was feeble. It was difficult for him to go home. Similarly, in his 1823 encounter with Moroni, the repetitive encounter, he was left weak, and his father sent him home. He couldn’t even climb the fence, though he was usually a strong and vigorous boy. Neibaur reports him saying of his condition immediately following the First Vision, “I . . . felt uncommon feeble.”43